When I Called For You
by akisura12
Summary: Sherlock stayed sick after the last Moriarty incident, so John gets some help from Mycroft. Things are sorted quickly, but when John receives a recording from the child working for Moriarty, their short lived peace is interrupted. Sequel to TWICFY!
1. Chapter 1

Title: When I Called For You

Author: Akisura12

Summary: Sherlock has mysteriously remained sick after John and his last run in with Moriarty, so Mycroft sends them out of London while Sherlock recuperates. However when John gets a recording sent to him in the mail from the child working for Moriarty, their "vacation" is cut short. Sequel to The Way I Cared For You.

Rating: T; This fic is likely to include mild, non-graphic Sherlock/John and brief descriptions of torture, same as its predecessor.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Drama

Warnings: Nothing in this chapter.

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Finally, the sequel is up! Sorry it took so long for me to post it^^'. This story is the sequel to one of my other stories, The Way I Cared For You, so I advise you read that first, though it's not completely necessary. It was extremely well received, and I hope that this fic will reach the same level of audience^_^. Alright, please read and enjoy!~

**-Chapter One-**

Sherlock has never had a particularly healthy constitution. He used to smoke like normal people breath, drink for the entire night, and still ignores all humanly pleas from his body for sleep and food. And of course, there were the years of recreational drug use. But he's never actually been sickly. Not until after the last Moriarty incident, which included his getting kidnapped and drugged and John being non-fatally shot in the chest (surprisingly saved by one Sally Donovan).

Sherlock is a fast healer and has an immune system stronger than a brick wall, it's simply fact. However for some reason, Sherlock took a very long time to recover from that particular Moriarty incident. His fever stayed up for days and John, despite being the one who was shot, was the one tending to him. John worried Sherlock's flu had turned into something more, like pneumonia. But after a week, when the man's temperature finally settled back to a steady 37 degrees, and John allowed him to go on a case.

Lestrade was… upset when he saw Sherlock, to say the least. Perhaps distressed might be a better word for it. The consulting detective visibly appeared to have lost weight, and he was much too pale. Sure, he'd been naturally pale before, but now he was, quite simply, _white_. John reassured the detective inspector that Sherlock was fine, but the words sounded like a lie even in his own mouth.

So it was that Sherlock had suddenly become very sickly. He caught ill almost every three weeks, which highly alarmed John. Sherlock didn't have much to say on the matter; he mostly ignored it until he found himself passed out and staring at the ceiling. Surprisingly, he couldn't deduce anything wrong with himself either.

It was the same every time: Fever, aches, and, a few times, he found himself throwing up. It wasn't terrible, but the fits were indefinitely getting worse. John worried there was something seriously wrong with his friend and forced him to see a doctor besides himself, but the man found nothing that would cause Sherlock to become continuously ill. John let Sherlock have his smug "I told you so" moment after, because the man was laid up on the couch with a relatively high fever at the moment.

"See, I told you it's nothing of importance," Sherlock had huffed. John, the good man that he was, had just silently handed him a cup full of childrens' Paracetamol (liquid, of course).

Mycroft had kidnapped him many times during the past four months since their run in with Moriarty. It'd become a sort of weekly thing, actually. John respected that the man cared for his little brother so much; he understood an elder brother's worry easily, what with him being an elder brother himself; Harry had certainly been a large cause of worry to John in the past. However John thoroughly did _not_ respect the fact that Mycroft sometimes caused him to be late for work, or drop the groceries he'd just bought onto a dirty London sidewalk because a man in black had suddenly manhandled him into a suspicious looking vehicle, or scare him half to death by popping up in the seemingly most random places (appearing from a bathroom stall while he was washing his hands at work was a particularly memorable instance).

Mycroft could be useful on occasion though: he told John who Sherlock's doctor was (yes, he actually had one, not that he ever went to see her), his medical records (turns out that Sherlock had been allergic to strawberries since childhood and had serious asthma until he was 19), and clever ways to manipulate Sherlock into letting John administer the medication he had been on since his kidnapping. This medication did _not_ come in liquid and Sherlock still refused to try taking a pill. John had even bought a box of Tic-Tacs to teach him how to swallow them, to no avail, so he had to give it to Sherlock through injections. The fact that Sherlock handled needles better than pills made John either chuckle darkly or face palm heavily, depending on his mood and what day it was.

They had not talked about what had happened after they had gotten back home from the hospital last time. Sherlock didn't seem to be researching the hell out of anyone named Amy Pond (John assumed that if he asked someone or searched the name anywhere, all he'd get was the television character anways) which was surprising, but John knew that when Moriarty was ready to get their attention again, he wouldn't have problems hesitating to do so.

They hadn't talked about the kiss either. Sherlock had pretended it hadn't happened at all really, and John didn't bring up the subject. He didn't tell Sarah, because he assumed it was a one-time thing. He told himself that Sherlock hadn't been in the right mind, being ill and all. Mycroft didn't mention it either (John had recently learned of the various ways Mycroft incredibly creepily knew what they were doing all day, every day) so John decided it was it was a closed case. He didn't think about it, or how he'd actually, maybe _enjoyed_ the press of Sherlock's lips against his own…?

John made himself forget it, until fourteen days after New Year's Eve, Sherlock passed out in their kitchen while John was out. John came back from his routine weekly trip to Tesco's and was horrified to see a pile of consulting detective breathing heavily on the titled floor.

"Dear God…" John breathed, and dropped the groceries with a thud on the living room carpet. He hurried into the adjoined kitchen and kneeled next to his flat mate. "Sherlock, _Sherlock, wake up_," John commanded, tapping Sherlock's cheek lightly but urgently with his surprisingly shaking fingertips. He was much too hot. "Sherlock if you do not wake up I will call 999, and I know you despise hospitals," John said, the doctor part of him managing to keep himself calm, but the friend part of him thoroughly distressed. The friend part seemed to be winning.

As if Sherlock's subconscious had heard the threat of being surrounded by what he considered to be unbearably stupid and _nosey_ doctors, John was relieved to see Sherlock's eye lids flutter before opening completely. "John…?" He murmured his voice barely audible. "What…?"

John sighed, "Come on, up you go," John said, and helped Sherlock onto his feet. 'He feels lighter than before, _why does he feel lighter than before_,' John thought, scared. "Sherlock when was the last time you ate?" John asked, leading - dragging - Sherlock over to the couch and dropping the tangle of long limbs onto the cushions.

"This morning," Sherlock muttered sleepily. Good, that was _good_, John told himself. Sherlock shivered. "John I'm _cold_…" His half-lidded eyes kept closing for much longer than one needed to blink. "I…" He furrowed his brow in confusion.

"Shh, shh," John hushed him gently. "You just lie there Sherlock, I'll get you a blanket." He sounded rather like Mrs. Hudson, he grimaced.

"Mm'kay…" Sherlock slurred, and closed his eyes fully. John sighed, worried. He knew Sherlock had never gotten sick very often before; His illnesses had been years apart, so why had he gotten sick again _already_? His last bout had been only two weeks ago. The name Moriarty stuck out painfully in his mind, but he ignored it, deciding now was not the time to be hypothesizing. Lestrade's team had done tests, there was _nothing _in those drugs that would have caused this. Right now, he needed to get Sherlock well again.

John found the thermometer, Parecetamol, and red blanket from Clara very quickly, as they'd been used quite recently. Far too recently, in John's opinion. He walked back over to Sherlock and placed the blanket over his feverish flat mate very gently.

Sherlock opened one bleary eye, and John wondered how the consulting detective had gotten so ill in just one morning. "John…" Sherlock moaned, and John was highly alarmed to hear obvious pain in the man's voice. That wasn't right, Sherlock didn't show weakness. Not even when he was _ill_, if he could help it.

"Don't worry Sherlock, everything will be alright," John soothed, half to himself. "Here," he held up the thermometer. He was even more alarmed when Sherlock just opened up without any complaints. John was sure a Sherlock who didn't complain was either delirious or dying. He made himself go with delirious.

Chances were, he probably _was_ delirious, judging by the 40.3 that showed up on the tiny electric screen a minute later. John bit his lip in worry. Before, the fevers hadn't been over 39. Not today though, apparently. Worried, John poured some of the Paracetamol onto a spoon and said, "Sherlock, take some, please? It'll make you feel better, I promise."

"Whaa?" Sherlock blinked and stared in John's general direction but not really seeing him. "My-croff…" He murmured.

This made John very scared; Sherlock avoided talking about his brother at the best of times, so for him to be _asking_ for Mycroft was six different kinds of disturbing. John shoved the spoon into Sherlock mouth and made him swallow, despite the horrible choking sounds that it caused Sherlock to make. He poured another spoonful and gave it the Sherlock.

Sherlock coughed at the taste, and John said, "I'm sorry Sherlock; _really_, this'll be good in the long run…"

Sherlock whimpered, actually _whimpered_, and John felt like crying. He was sitting on the edge of the couch Sherlock lay on, and tenderly brushed the man's sweaty hair off his forehead. "Don't worry, Sherlock, it's all right," John said, his voice wavering unconvincingly. He wondered if he should call Mycroft.

And then Sherlock started to cry. God, it was painful for John to watch. It wasn't noisy or annoying, but silent tears that came from whatever was hurting Sherlock so badly. "John," he whimpered. "John it hurts. I'm _scared,_ John."

This was so out of character of Sherlock that he texted Mycroft, 'Need help. Sherlock. JW.' He didn't bother explaining because one, Mycroft would probably deduce what had happened on his own, no problem and, two, Mycroft was never busy when Sherlock needed him. It didn't matter if it was during elections, or he was trying to stop a war, or he was in an important meeting that was crucial to the survival of the British government. Mycroft was never too busy for his dear younger brother.

John got a reply from Mycroft approximately ten seconds after his own was sent. 'On my way. MH'

"Oh Sherlock…" John muttered, setting the mobile on the table and smoothed his friend's sweat drenched hair back. "What is the _matter_ with you?"

Sherlock opened his eyes sleepily. "John…" He mumbled.

"What, Sherlock?" John answered worriedly. The absence of the excited, ever _intelligent_ spark in Sherlock's eyes might be what disturbed John the most.

"I'd do it again," Sherlock said his voice extremely earnest.

"Do what again?" John asked, confused. But his flat mate had already passed out once more.

John sighed and pushed back his own hair, a habit he'd kept for years. "Come on Mycroft…" John said under his breath, wishing the "British Government," as Sherlock called him, would hurry up. John wasn't really sure what summoning Mycroft would actually _do,_ or if it would help at all, but he couldn't think of anyone better to call besides 999, which he knew Sherlock would consider a betrayal. John kept it in the back of his head as a last resort. He would call Mrs. Hudson, but their angelically tolerant landlady was currently on a trip to see some of her old friends back in America.

If there were _literally_ anyone else in Sherlock's situation and John couldn't call 999 for some other oddly convincing reason, he would have called Sarah. But Sherlock seemed to have problems with his sort-of girlfriend. Being who he was, Sherlock tolerated her well enough, considering. But he usually avoided her when she was over, and always had an attitude problem after John came back from one of his dates with her (he seemed equally angry when John spent the night). John forced himself this was to believe he wanted John's attention and service as his sidekick, and decidedly did _not_ have anything to do with their kiss.

Lestrade was an option, because he seemed one of the two people John had met so far who actually seemed to _like_ Sherlock, to a point, and not just tolerate him (the other was Mycroft). He also knew that Lestrade had helped Sherlock when he was knee deep in trouble involving recreational drug use. But he didn't seem very doctoral in any aspect, aside from the being-able-to-act-professionally-sympathetic with those he's had to break the news to about their loved ones just dying, so John didn't call him either. He decided he _might_ call the DI if he needed someone to - pardon the term - _babysit_ Sherlock though.

John fidgeted in his place on the edge of the couch, tangling his fingers between each other nervously and checking that the wet washcloth he'd placed on Sherlock's forehead was still cold. It was, which was good of course, but John almost wanted - _needed_ - an excuse for himself to do something else besides sit. Just sitting and watching and doing _nothing but wait_ was not proving to do much else for John besides cause him to become even more nervous than he already was.

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A/N: Good start? I know, it's rather dry, but so was the start to the previous story^^'. Next chapter will have lots of Mycroft, for those of you who were wondering where the hell he was during the first story, haha. As per needed, a big thank you to my beta Just Celia. Hope you've enjoyed, and

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	2. Chapter 2

Warnings: Nothing in this chapter either!^^ Though, please note that when I say Mycroft "loves," it's not in the creepy way.

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Yes, chapter 2! Hopefully I will get 3 up very soon. As ever, as always, a HUGE thank you to everyone's response to chapter 1, and my lovely Beta, Just Celia. So, please enjoy and REVIEW!^_^

**Chapter 2**

Mycroft Holmes was a busy man. Between running the British government and coordinating the world at large, all behind the scenes, and taking care of his brother, Sherlock. The boy, as Mycroft usually called him in his own head - even though his younger brother was no longer a child - had always been difficult.

When he was a small child, one could put his attitude and lack of general care towards himself could be put down to rebellious or boyish adolescence. However after the boy reached 30, it became much harder to find an excuse for the state he was in. He still drunk, and smoked, and went through cocaine like candy, which Mycroft found nearly unbearable to think about.

That was, until a man named G. Lestrade came along and somehow, forced his brother's life into a bit more order. He not only helped - rather, _forced_ - the boy off his drug habit, but he gave his brother something to do. In Sherlock's mind, and quite frankly, Mycroft's too, dying was better than being bored. Perhaps bored wasn't right word for it. Maybe… Unoccupied? Whatever it was, it drove them both crazy when they weren't doing something dramatic.

So the fact that the detective inspector could so easily cure Sherlock's "boredom" was both a wonder and a heaven-sent miracle to Mycroft, and he loved Lestrade for that. Mind you, he'd only actually met the man a few times previously, and each time it was to speak about Sherlock, but Mycroft found Lestrade somewhat a miracle himself, for being able to withstand his hellish brother.

And then came John Watson. Mycroft was sure that the ex-army doctor would be gone by the next week, but when the good man stayed, Mycroft found himself in awe with a second person. Perhaps even more so than he'd been with Lestrade.

John was a kind man. He was quiet, but not meek, and he somehow seemed to know just what Sherlock needed. If Mycroft gave hugs, he would've hugged John. He doesn't though, which is why he honoured John with a real smile once, an actual not-snake-like, honest to God smile, and in Mycroft's language, that was like a hug, a kiss, and a friendly shag.

So when John texted Mycroft, 'Need help. Sherlock. JW.' Mycroft was more than ready to drop what he was doing (which was currently watching CTV camera footage to figure the identity of the alleged theft last week in the former prime minister's house) and help his dear brother's "colleague" out.

'On my way. MH.' Mycroft quickly texted back, and called, "Maya, we're leaving!" For that was his dedicated, beautiful, unusual assistant's name this week.

She was very particular about it; Mycroft had been given her real name the first day he had been told that she was his new assistant, but she had made it very clear that she hated her name, and that she wanted to be called Elizabeth. Mycroft had raised an eyebrow at this, but decided it really wasn't any matter if his assistant wanted to be called another name.

The second week upon taking up her position as Mycroft's assistant, she was Tracey, and the week after that, Helaina. From then on, Mycroft greeted her every Monday morning with a bright, "Pleased to see you, miss…?" And she would helpfully fill in her pseudonym for the week.

Mycroft decided all that really mattered was that she was good at her job, and she was, very much so. It didn't matter if he wasn't in the same room as her, like now, because no matter where he was, she would show up at his side in under a minute. Mycroft's genius of a subconscious had timed it many times before.

"Where's that?" She asked, showing up at the door of his office 12.3 seconds later.

"Sherlock's flat. I'm afraid the boy's gone and gotten himself ill again." Mycroft said, then gave a half-smile. "Shall we go?" He didn't need her permission to leave - she was his assistant after all - but Mycroft was a gentleman. He stood and gathered his cell phone and umbrella.

"Yes sir," she said, giving him a curt little nod. "Taking the car?"

"Yes," Mycroft answered, and she nodded again. The two of they made their way out of Mycroft's office, through the overly long hallways of the building, and into the black car waiting patiently for them.

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Less than fifteen minutes after John had texted Mycroft, he heard a knock at the door. John wasn't really sure how Mycroft got to their flat so quickly; it would have taken John at least twenty. But then, this was Sherlock Holmes' brother, and the two seemed to be able to navigate London as quickly as one writes their own name.

John opened the door quickly, and Mycroft saw his face was full of panic. He was desperate.

"Oh thank God," John said quickly, and opened the door wider for Mycroft to come in. "He's on the couch." No clarification as to who 'he' referred to was needed.

Mycroft nodded, turned his umbrella handle once in his palm before setting it down by the door, and walked past John into their flat. He stood by the couch and studied his brother. What he saw did not surprise him - John wouldn't have called him unless absolutely necessary - but it was still daunting.

Sherlock looked ghastly. Mycroft had seen his brother high and bloodied before, but vulnerable was something a bit rarer. Even when drugged senseless, he usually still was able to greet Mycroft with a "Piss off," before passing out. However this was different, because this wasn't in any way his brother's fault. He didn't have anyone to blame. And for some reason, that made it harder.

Mycroft got on his knees in front of the couch to examine his little brother. "How long's he had the fever?" He asked.

"I dunno," John said, sounding thoroughly regretful. Mycroft felt sorry for the man; He was so good to his brother, even when he had no reason to be. "I came back from Tesco's about half an hour ago, he's didn't seem ill this morning though…" John trailed off.

"Yes, well, my brother is known for being quite adept at the art of… _deception_." Mycroft said humourlessly. He turned back to Sherlock and studied the boy. He looked so frail, as always. Usually when people first met his brother as a child, until he became a suddenly very tall teenager, they often assumed him sickly, and weak. Which was of course a complete misinterpretation on their part, but Mycroft could understand why.

"Hospital?" Mycroft asked John.

"Must we?" John asked, a hint of a whine in his voice.

Mycroft smirked. "Ah, my brother can be quite stubborn, at times. He even refused to be taken to the hospital after falling down three flights of stairs when he was ten," He recounted thoughtfully. Then, "Though, John, I was extremely surprised when you texted me. Sherlock has a general distaste for me, and I'd think you'd be just as hesitant to call me as 999. So I ask, why did you call me here?"

John was startled at the words; he knew Mycroft was just as much as a mind reader as Sherlock was, but he still found it unsettling. "I… He called for you. Said your name."

"Really now?" Mycroft said, opening his eyes a tad wider. "And because he said my name in his sleep, you assumed he wanted to see me?"

John frowned. "No, but it was you, 999, or Sarah, and Sherlock doesn't approve of any of you. But he said _your_ name, so it just… _happened_."

Mycroft nodded, "Ah, I see. Well, Dr. Watson, there's not much I can do, seeing as I'm not a medical professor. But I think it would be best if we went to my place."

"Yes, yes alright." John said, flustered. And again, Mycroft felt sympathy towards the poor, very sensitive man.

"Well," Mycroft said, grunted slightly as he stood. "Shall we go?"

John looked startled, as if he was just now realizing that when Mycroft had asked him to come to his house, he actually meant _go to his house_. For some reason, John had always imagined Mycroft didn't have a house. He thought of Mycroft as a man who stayed in his office and never came out. Though in truth, John knew he really didn't know anything about Mycroft's daily life.

"Er, yes, right. Just – hang on a second. How are we to move him?" John asked.

"I'll carry him," Mycroft offered. Then, due to the look on John's face, he added, "I may be heavy set, John, but I _am_ strong."

John flushed, "No, I just meant – Right, okay." John leaned over Sherlock; tapped his cheek to wake him, because that seemed to have worked before. "Sherlock?" John muttered, then more loudly, "Sherlock, wake up now. Mycroft is here."

Sherlock moaned, and though his eyelids flickered, he didn't really wake up. John sighed, ran his hand through his hair, and tentatively pushed Sherlock up. Mycroft kneeled again so that his back was towards the couch. John understood that he was meant to push his flat mate onto Mycroft's back, but all Sherlock did was mutter something that sounded like "Mmcfftmmmnnn."

"Sherlock, this would be a lot easier if you wok up," John said, sounding very doctoral-military-man.

To Mycroft's deep surprise, Sherlock actually opened his eyes. "John," Sherlock moaned.

"Come on, Sherlock, get on Mycroft's back." How wrong that sounded. John pushed him lightly forward, so that Sherlock sort of flopped onto his brother.

Sherlock took a few shuddering breaths. John flinched; hearing Sherlock in pain was like pricking yourself in the stomach with needles.

"Come on now, my boy," Mycroft said, and his tone had taken on one that John had only heard once before, when Sherlock was half-dead in the hospital after their first run in with Moriarty. It was… caring. Brotherly.

Sherlock muttered some utter nonsense, though John was pretty sure it included the words "Mycroft" and "prat" very close together. If the situation weren't so disturbing for him, John would have laughed.

Mycroft took a minute to properly situate Sherlock on his back before standing and walking towards the door. "Come, Dr. Watson." Mycroft said.

"Just a minute," John said. "I'm just going to get a few things." Mycroft nodded, knowingly.

"Yes, I'll wait for you out front." He said, and clambered down the stairs.

Once he was gone, John looked about the carpet, quickly locating his old messenger bag. In it, he stuck his small laptop, Sherlock and his cellphones, the bottle of Paracetamol, and, on a last whim, his gun. He severely hoped, and assumed, that he wouldn't need it, but John had grown used to having it with him at nearly all times. It had come in handy more than once.

He shrugged on his jacket and wrapped Sherlock's blue scarf over his right arm; the man would be cold still, after all. John was on his way out, when he noticed that Mycroft had forgotten his umbrella. That scared him just a bit, because he's not once seen Mycroft without his near extra appendage. He picked it up, twirled it gently a few times. It was a comforting sort of thing, to have the wood clenched in his hands.

Like many people, John liked to clutch something when he was scared, or worried, or wanted to be comforted. He wondered if Mycroft worried a lot; He certainly had reason enough to be. Maybe that was the purpose of the umbrella? He looked at the handle again, and this time noticed a small engraving in the wood. 'Just in case. SH.' John had no idea what this meant, but it made him smile.

With that he passed through the open door, locked it, and started down the stairs. John spotted Mycroft's car, not more than a few feet away, with ease. He opened the door to see Sherlock leaning, asleep, against the window opposite of the one in the door John had just pulled open. Mycroft was in the front, and John was extremely surprised to see him driving. His assistant - Not-Anthea as John called her - was sitting in the passenger seat, tapping away on her blackberry faster than seemingly possible as usual. But he paid her no mind today, as he usually would. Today, he was too worried about Sherlock to even _try_ and impress a girl.

John sat on the black leather seat and closed the door with a loud slam. He glanced over at Sherlock, but the noise hadn't woken the feverish man. Mycroft started the car, and they left 221B Baker Street quickly.

John leaned over towards Sherlock while they were driving and pressed the back of his hand on Sherlock's face. Still hot. Though not any hotter. He reached into his bag and pulled out the blue scarf. He wrapped it gently onto Sherlock's neck, and smiled. Sleeping, and covered in the untactfully-wrapped scarf, the consulting detective was almost… _cute_. '**NO**,' John thought, '_NO_, I am not going back into this _now, no_.'

He distracted himself by saying, "I've got your umbrella, Mycroft," John tapped the handle. "I can see why you like it so much."

John could see the British Government smirk in the car view mirror. "Thank you, Dr. Watson," he said, keeping his eyes on the road as was proper.

"It's an interesting engraving," John said, leaning back in his seat.

Mycroft gave a huffy little laugh. "Yes, I suppose it is."

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A/N: Okay, thanks for reading and I really hope you enjoyed!

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	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hello you guys, I'm soooo sorry for the incredibly slow update. My muse completely died for a while. Also, I decided to write a lot of chapters of this story in advance, to make sure this doesn't happen again, so…Yeah, that also took a awhile. And then there was slight delay between writings and editing… If you're reading, thanks so much for being faithful and hopefully understanding. A little reminder, I constantly update my profile page to reflect where I am in each of my stories. So if you're wondering how far I am in certain chapters, just go there! Also, another plug, I have a blog (www. materialistic-charm. blogspot. com) where you can view not-yet-published chapters of my stories; the un-edited version of chapter 4 is up there :).

**-Chapter 3-**

When they arrived at Mycroft's house, John was rather surprised to see a building that wasn't at all small, but far from the mansion/castle/Victorian era work of art that he had imagined pulling up to. It was the second house on the left side of the street, part of a small but rather wealthy development on the northern side of London. John was fairly sure that Mycroft, or at least the Holmes family, had more than enough money than was needed for the purchase and upkeep of Mycroft's only slightly large house, if the way he and Sherlock dressed was any implication. He had yet to meet either of the Holmes parents – he wasn't even sure if they were still alive - but he imagined them the very image of high-class-money-filled-peoples.

"Nice," he commented on the estate earnestly. "It's… really nice."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," Mycroft replied to the compliment politely. He twisted the key to shut the engine off, which gave one quick, final shudder and screech before stilling. The ride had been… quiet, at best. Neither Mycroft nor John had anything to say to each other, mostly likely because there was a lump of feverish consulting detective in the seat next to John, making them both fairly nervous.

John opened the car door and walked around the back of the fancy black vehicle. He then opened the left side door and gently shook Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock, wake up," John ordered, the words sounding almost habitual now. He fluidly reached over the still sleeping consulting detective and unbuckled the seatbelt. Mycroft watched from the side of the car, an expression on his face that was somewhere between surprised and not surprised at all; perhaps, meaningful? Whatever it was, it was telling. If it weren't Mycroft, John would have said it was the look someone would give after he witnessed another man save a kitten from abandonment on a rainy day. He wasn't sure how he felt having that look directed at his self though.

Sherlock stirred at the loud click the seat buckle made as it released the belt and opened his eyes blearily. "John…" he mumbled, and closed his eyes again.

John frowned and slapped Sherlock in a way that would hurt only just enough to wake him. "Sherlock, I said wake _up_," John ordered, his military routes once again revealing themselves. "We're at Mycroft's house, you need to get out of the car. _Sherlock_," John said exasperated, when Sherlock's eyes once again closed.

John knew that though it was rather unethical to do what he was about to do, Sherlock was not waking up. Not easily, anyway. John also knew from past experiences that Sherlock was not a very pleasant person right after he woke up. He was slow and groggy and as stubborn as a child being woken up for his finals at school after not studying at all. So the unethical-but-needed thing that John decided to do was to pull Sherlock forcefully out of the car. John grunted slightly from the effort; Sherlock was light for his height, but that was still mildly heavy. John pulled until Sherlock practically fell out of the car, knees breaking and causing him to fall in a heap on the paved driveway.

Sherlock woke up again. "John…? John _what_…?" He blinked slowly before looking around. John tried not to cringe when he saw how Sherlock's eyes were still missing their usual spark. But it was returning, somewhat. _"Mycroft_?" He scoffed with disdain.

John scowled and pulled him to his feet. Sherlock leaned against him heavily, but was able to stand well enough. "It was either that or bring you to the A&E," John said. Sherlock didn't say anything in return, one because of all the effort it was taking him to walk, but also because he knew John _had_ only been being logical.

That didn't mean he had to _like_ it though. He huffed and pushed away from John a bit, forcing himself to stand on his own. "_Mycroft_ is _cumbersome_," Sherlock sniffed dramatically.

Mycroft came around the car, smirking. "Right here, my boy."

Sherlock gave a smirk back; John cringed at how very similar they looked, when Mycroft relaxed a bit and reverted to a somewhat smug version of his usual self. It was terrifying. "Yes, I know." Sherlock drawled, then, "And _my boy_? Really, Mycroft, we are not _thirteen_ anymore."

John was very confused. He didn't voice his confusion, but the mind-reading Holmes (in this instance, it was Mycroft) answered with "When Sherlock was 13, I was 20, Doctor Watson."

"…Okay," John said blankly. He shifted between his feet uncomfortably as the brothers glared mischievously at each other. "Shall we… go inside then?"

Sherlock nodded, closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then nodded again. John didn't comment on it. "Yes, come John." He said, his voice returning to the authoritative tone it usually held. The return of this voice was both a relief and a bother to John.

"You know, you were the one who was passed out the whole ride here," John reminded him, slightly annoyed. Sherlock ignored him.

The four of them – Sherlock, John, Mycroft and Mycroft's assistant –walked to the door step of Mycroft's house. Not-Anthea produced a key from her pocket and fit it into the lock, letting them in.

John stepped into the house and looked around in amazement; Mycroft had one of those houses which wasn't really that big, but had the ability to look incredibly huge on the inside. The staircase was a few paces from the door, long and winding, and a glass-paned door was to their right, showing an impressive office. John guessed it was Mycroft's study, considering the large mounds of paper and piles of pens, calculators, and rulers lying about an expensive looking computer.

On the right of the staircase was a short hallway that led to a very nice, clean, not-contaminated-with-poisonous-substances kitchen. On the left, another set of glass doors, though these were open, that led to a rather large room that had sleek wooden floors, fancy windows, and a beautiful Steinway piano sitting on one wall. John couldn't see it too well, but he was pretty sure there was another sizable room connecting this one to the kitchen, and another on the other side of the kitchen.

"Wow," John commented. He looked at Sherlock, "You have to admit, your brother's got style."

"Why thank you, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said pleasantly over Sherlock's scowl and mutters that sounded something like "_asifbutmummyalwayslikedit_". On the other hand, Mycroft seemed to have brightened a bit in the last five minutes. John guessed it had to do with the fact that Sherlock was awake and being quite Sherlockian, meaning his fever had probably gone down.

"Why are we _here_," Sherlock glowered, and then at John's exasperated look, "Yes, I know _why_ we came here, but why are we _still_ here?"

"You _just_ woke _up_, Sherlock," John said agitatedly. "But sure, if you want to go pass out in an alley way of London with your brains burning themselves to bits, why don't you just _go right ahead_?" He received a quiet stare from Sherlock and a raised eyebrow from Mycroft at this. He could almost feel the two brothers calculating and looking into his previous sentence, and his every move, determining exactly what he had meant by that statement. "Sorry, that as mean," he muttered, bowing his head.

"Well," Mycroft said, trying to break the awkward silence. "Why don't we have some tea? It's just about lunch time…"

John nodded, "Alright."

With that, they shuffled into the kitchen. Not-Anthea put on the kettle, and the four of them sat at the large, round wooden table in Mycroft's kitchen. John briefly wondered if Anthea actually lived here, what with her making the tea without invitation, but he didn't really care all that much. What Mycroft did or who he liked to be with in his spare time was not a subject John neither dared to ask about or, quite frankly, was all that interested in. Of course, he had a polite interest in Mycroft, as all people do to each other, but it did not go very much further than that. He had the feeling if he did try to go further than that, he'd get both a lot more than a wanted and several contracts to sign on secrecy.

"So, John," Mycroft said, once his assistant had placed matching tea cups and saucers in front of them. John noted that the tea included the exact amount of cream and sugar that he and Sherlock preferred, which John had no idea how Not-Anthea knew, but was a little more than strange. "My brother's health has been…poor, to say the least recently. Do you agree with me that it may be in his best interest to spend some time in the countryside?"

Sherlock frowned at this. "Mycroft, you are not the boss of me," he said, and John had to make an effort not to smile at Sherlock's childlike attitude towards his brother.

"No, I am not," Mycroft replied thoughtfully. However I am your older brother, which means I am, at least in part, responsible for your well-being. And so I ask, Doctor Watson, do you agree that taking some time off would be beneficial to my brother's health?"

John looked away from Sherlock, feeling unnecessarily guilty as he said, "Well, yes, I suppose it might." He could almost physically feel Sherlock glaring metaphorical daggers at his head.

"I have _work_, Mycroft." Sherlock said harshly. "I do not have time to sit in the house all day."

"Scotland Yard can function just fine without you, Sherlock," Mycroft said firmly, ignoring Sherlock's snort of amusement at the idea that Anderson could even tie his own shoes without help. "They _can_. The Yard is not completely incompetent, no matter how much you believe they are. Lestrade is a fine investigator. Furthermore, it's nearly winter. Thanks to your breaking the radiator for an experiment last year, you and Doctor Watson will _freeze_ without my intervention."

"The heating can be fixed," Sherlock scowled, and he coughed slightly into his hand. "And _freeze_, Mycroft, _really_? So dramatic." _As if he were one to talk about being over-dramatic_, John thought briefly.

"Hang on," John piped up, "You broke our heating?"

"I didn't _break_ it John, I already said it was an _experiment_." Sherlock scoffed, as if that were the most logical reason in the world.

"Right, okay, well, I wouldn't mind spending the winter in a warm house, Sherlock." John said, before fully processing the conversation in his head. "Wait a second, Mycroft, why are you including me in this anyway?" John exclaimed.

"You are being exceptionally slow today, John," Sherlock said.

"It's your fault I'm exhausted," John shot back.

"I was _defending_ you," Sherlock frowned, and turned away. John immediately felt uncomfortable, because he'd probably hurt Sherlock's feelings. Sherlock was a self-proclaimed sociopath, albeit a high functioning one, and though John was pretty sure he wasn't actually emotionless, he did have an extremely hard time with feelings. So unintentionally discouraging Sherlock's "defending a friend" technique was not something John had wanted, no matter how weak the attempt might have been.

"Alright, settle down," Mycroft said smoothly. He turned to John. "Doctor Watson, if my brother is to spend his winter in the country side, I'd greatly appreciate it if you were to go with him." Mycroft tone told John that not only would it be greatly appreciated, but non-negotiable. "Left on his own, Sherlock will likely tear the house to shreds."

"What about _my_ job?" John asked. "Because unlike the "consulting detective" over there, I'm actually employed and need _money_."

"You won't have to worry about that, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said. "I can arrange for your position to be held at the surgery until you return. I will also deposit an appropriate amount of money to your checking account for you and Sherlock while you are away."

"Right…okay." John said blankly. A small part of his brain told him he should, first off, ask Sarah about this. And second_, break it off_ with Sarah, because really all he ever did these days seemed to suggest to the rest of the world that he and Sherlock were sharing a bed together. Really, he was in Sherlock's _brother's_ house, discussing a place _for the two of them_ to stay _together_ on "vacation". John wasn't sure how much more he could take without his _own_ brain convincing himself that he should be waking up next to Sherlock.

A/N: I've been told my version of Mycroft is lovable, but not really in-character, in regards to the Sherlock version of him. That's probably because I tend to sort of write in Mycroft more like one of the old versions I saw from many years ago…Does anybody know who this Mycroft was: John first[?] meets him when he comes home to Sherlock and Mycroft in the library[?] sitting on a windowsill, deducing away at people passing by bellow on the streets.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, following chapters will hopefully come very quickly, seeing as they are already written; chapters 4-6 are in the process of being beta'd. I was absolutely blown away by the response I got to the first two chapters, thanks so much! As always, thank you to my lovely beta Just Celia, and remember to **PLEASE…**

**-CLICK**

**-BELOW**

**-AND…**

**-…REVIEW!^_^**


	4. Chapter 4

Warnings: T; this chapter could easily be rated K+ though. Just mentions of intravenous (not bad drugs, legal) medicine, if that bothers you…

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**A/N:** Right-O, next chapter! Hope you enjoy; for some reason it was really hard to write. It's also a fair bit longer than previous chapters too, if that's a good thing :). Sorry for the ever-long waits between chapters. As always, thanks for all the reviews/favs/watches I got last time around, you guys are the best. Thanks so much, because I definitely couldn't do it without your support. Now, hope you enjoy chapter 4!

**-Chapter 4-**

When John woke up, the first thing he thought was "Where's my gun." The next thing he thought, after taking a few deep breaths and reminding himself that he was not still in Afghanistan, was that he didn't know where he was. It took him a moment before remembering that he was in Mycroft's Holmes' house.

John sat up and groaned, because he honestly had no idea why in the name of sanity he was waking up in a room in his flat mate's brother's house. It definitely broke the border between flat mate and friend, and the one between friend and… other. John rubbed his palms against his eyes; if he met himself today, he'd have pinned John Watson down as gay in 10 minutes.

Last night had been…interesting, to say the least. Sherlock had been fine for a while, so Mycroft and John entertained themselves talking about cases and politics and general things that Sherlock really did not give a flying toss about. The younger Holmes brother mostly just sulked on Mycroft's extremely comfortable leather couch next to the fireplace, which was then radiating a very warm heat.

Mycroft could cook, to John's complete and utter surprise, and around six they ate baked macaroni and cheese for dinner. John thought it was delicious and said so. Sherlock said it needed more salt, but finished more than half of his portion which was, in Sherlock's version of communication, as good as a compliment.

By seven Sherlock was on the couch again, this time asleep and burning with fever. Mycroft had his assistant fetch cold washcloths, and John tended to the unfortunate consulting detective until nine, when Sherlock's body temperature was closer to thirty-eight than forty. Mycroft carried - yes, carried - his sleeping brother up the stairs bridal style. It was an odd sight, but somehow endearing at the same time.

Mycroft had Sherlock sleep in one of the three guest bedrooms he had, the one next to his room, and positioned John in the in the bedroom directly across the thin hallway. Mycroft's assistant was next to him, across from Mycroft. John worried that if Sherlock took a turn for the worse during the night, he wouldn't be able to hear him, but Mycroft reassured John that the dose of Paracetamol they'd given Sherlock would be more than enough to last until morning, and that he would check on his younger brother right before he went to sleep. John had agreed to these terms, though he was still slightly worried.

John looked around the bedroom; it was very nice. The theme was obviously green, as there were green walls, green duvet, green pillowcases…it was set in a way that was not overly-striking, however, just very pleasant. Yes, John thought, Mycroft did have good style…

John smirked. 'Good style' Mycroft did indeed have. He hadn't packed pajamas or a change of clothes for Sherlock or himself, but Mycroft just happened to have perfectly John and Sherlock sized clothes at his house. John didn't dwell too much on the creepiness of this, because he was already used to the fact that Mycroft was far from discreet, when it came to his brother. And, in any case, these clothes were very obviously worth more than most of John's own wardrobe put together.

The clothes weren't overly flashy, but they just had that air of "rich" to them, like all of Sherlock and Mycroft's clothes. John had slept in the t-shirt he'd worn yesterday and his boxers to sleep, but he admitted he would have to borrow some of the clothes Mycroft had offered to him today. He wasn't surprised when there was a neatly folded pile of clothes on the chair in the corner of the room.

John looked at the time on the clock on the wall and was surprised to see he had slept in till nine. He immediately had to resist the urge to see Sherlock, and told himself to freshen up first.

He took a quick shower in the bathroom down the hall and then prepared to dress for the day. John groaned miserably when he saw the clothes Mycroft had left him. The outer clothing consisted of a long sleeved, light blue button down and black jeans which looked rather tight. He quickly put on the shirt, which was surprisingly comfortable, and the jeans, which were unsurprisingly tight, but at least not overly so. He stared at himself at the mirror for a minute, taking in the fact that he looked well enough to go to a funeral.

He ran his hand through his off-blonde hair and walked out. He stood outside of the door to Sherlock's room, unexplainably nervous, and knocked. He didn't get an answer, so John assumed he was either already downstairs or still asleep. He opened the door quietly and poked his head in.

He saw Sherlock, sleeping on the bed, sprawled out like a small child. His mouth was slightly open as he slept, and he looked so peaceful that John nearly forgot that this man was the same one who habitually forced him into dangerous and often life-threatening situations.

John smiled and walked over to the side of the bed. Leaning over, he gently placed the back of his hand to Sherlock's cheek. No fever. Good. Sherlock stirred at the touch though, and took a moment of fluttering his eyes open before managing a "John? What're you doing?" His brain then caught up with his body and he frowned, "What are you wearing?"

John smirked, "Ask your brother. Though I have to say, Mycroft is going to have to learn sooner or later that not everyone has business meetings every day."

Sherlock gave a weak smile and yawned. "So, I assume he's gone to work already?"

John shrugged, "Probably, I haven't gone downstairs yet though."

Sherlock nodded and threw back the covers. "Well, let's find out shall we?" He was wearing a dark grey v-neck and sweatpants, just like his favourite pyjamas at home, but they weren't the same ones. Mycroft certainly knew - or rather, stalked - his brother well.

"Are you going to change?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock answered, standing and stretching his arms up very childishly.

"Er, shower then?"

"No."

"R-right," John said, "Okay."

Sherlock scowled, "Please John, you should know that it is not completely necessary to take a shower every day."

John sighed, "Well no, but it is, you know, advised," he said. "And besides, you did sweat about half a gallon last night."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if he weren't more dramatic than that most of the time. "Please John, that's just unrealistic." _Oh yes, because you're one to stay away from things that don't seem possible_, John thought smugly to himself.

"_Riiiiight_," John repeated. He and Sherlock sort of stood opposite each other for a few moments after that, the tension in the air growing rather intensely.

John cleared his throat. "Ah, so, Mycroft's umbrella…"

"It was a bet," Sherlock said quickly.

"I'm sorry?" John asked, wondering how umbrellas and bets connected. Then again, this was the Holmes family he was talking about. With their super human intellect, they could probably find connections between any two ideas in the entire world, even if they were so random as, say, dairy products and child-abuse.

"Between Mycroft and I," Sherlock said, and he sounded…almost proud of himself. "It was the wo – it was one time when I was right and he was wrong."

John laughed at Sherlock's utterly childlike mind. "Ah, I see. So, you don't outsmart Mycroft very often then."

Sherlock looked at him, a mixture between a proud and annoyed expression on his face. "I didn't say that, how did you come to that conclusion John?"

John snorted, "I do notice some things, you know. Maybe not as well as you, but I can deduce, a little. The fact that you're pointing out the fact that it was "a time" when you outsmarted him suggests it doesn't happen often. And, well…It doesn't take a genius to figure out that you were going to say 'the one time I as right', Sherlock."

Sherlock's expression didn't change, and John sighed. "Okay, so, what did you bet on?"

"The weather," Sherlock said confidently. He scratched his back as he said so, looking down at John. "We used to bet every morning about everything. What the breakfast would be, the weather, who would win the football games. If someone got it right and the other person got it wrong they'd have to go through with the bet. Oh, Mummy hated it." Sherlock was grinning as he described this, but his expression grew a bit more solemn as he said, "Usually we both got it right. But sometimes I'd get it wrong. But Mycroft never did," he scowled. "We usually bet with money, sometimes chores or toys or food."

John smirked, "Food? Please don't tell me Mycroft used to steal food from you."

"It wasn't really stealing, we bet on it and I lost," Sherlock said heatedly. John could've sworn he heard Sherlock's lingering grudge against his brother for being outsmarted in his voice.

"But one day, I was right. Too bad I only got a fiver out of it, but still, Mycroft was furious. He wouldn't talk to me for days." Sherlock grinned, which John found a little unnerving. If Harry – rather, when Harry – went silent on him, John would panic and throw a fit until she spoke to him again (it was usually just to tell him to shut up, but he was young and it was good enough for him).

"I – I see," John said weakly. "So, you and Mycroft were close when you were young?"

Sherlock frowned. "Why do you say that?"

"Again, not stupid," John answered. "You two bet every morning; of course you had to be somewhat close. And besides," John grinned. "The way you're still so proud of outsmarting him when he was a child himself makes it obvious that you were either very good friends or you really, really liked, or looked up to your brother."

Sherlock looked embarrassed at that, "Don't be ridiculous John," he muttered, and quickly walked in front of John out the door of the room.

"Ah – Sherlock!" John said, following after him. "Look, I didn't mean for you to take offense or anything…"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, turned, and looked at John quite intensely, "I did not take offense. I'm not that simple minded, like everyone else," he said coldly. The two men stood staring at each other for another very long ten seconds before Sherlock broke away, which surprised John a bit, but he didn't say anything about.

"Right, so, downstairs now?" John asked nervously.

"Er, yes, that seems to be the most sensible course of action at the given moment, seeing as we're in the hallway that leads to the staircase," Sherlock said, sounding slightly cross, but started down anyways.

John sighed and followed him. They made their way into the kitchen to find a hand written note on the table that said, "I've gone to work. I will be back around ten. Make sure he doesn't run off, Dr. Watson. There is plenty of food in the cupboards. Sherlock's medications are in the upper right shelf. Have a nice day, little brother. –Mycroft." It had been written in the fanciest writing John had ever seen come out of a pen, and on a half-sheet size of stationary with pale purple flowers printed in the back ground. It made John laugh, because of course Mycroft would write a simple note on such fancy paper and handwriting. And the entire note was in completely full sentences too!

Sherlock looked a bit irritated and was glaring at the note like it was some sort of poison, so John picked it up, folded it and stuck it in the back pocket of the jeans he was wearing. "He could've just texted," Sherlock said, malice dripping in his tone. "He knows I prefer it."

"Maybe that's why he did it?" John suggested sensibly, and Sherlock gave him a look that said 'yes, I know why,'. John shrugged, "And besides," he said, "It was a nice note. And it seems more personal this way, don't you think?"

"Nice? Personal?" Sherlock scoffed. "John, if I had a brother who was concerned with endearments, he certainly would not be running practically every government in the world right now."

Yes, that was true, John thought wearily.

"What do you want for breakfast?" John asked, changing the subject, because it seemed that most of their conversations this morning had revolved around Mycroft. He looked through the shelves of the kitchen.

"Not hungry," Sherlock said quickly. John raised an eyebrow, which made Sherlock scowl. "I feel fine, John. I ate more than enough last night."

Yes, he did, John thought, but he could eat so much more… "Please, just a bit?" John asked, sounding every bit like a mother trying to get her disobedient toddler to eat their fruit mush. Sherlock didn't answer. John sighed and took Mycroft's kettle off of the stove and filled it up. He set it on, and then rummaged through the cereal boxes before finding some normal corn flakes for himself, and Fruit Loops for Sherlock. Yes, Mycroft definitely stalked them. Sherlock sat down at the table, despite his previous complaints towards eating anything, and John poured the cereal and milk into two separate bowls. He then also poured a glass of orange juice for Sherlock, because the man definitely needed some vitamin c. He found spoons in the drawer, finished readying the tea, poured a mug full for himself, and sat down across the small table from Sherlock.

He started to eat, not really looking at Sherlock. He knew Sherlock didn't like to eat, but he liked it even less when someone was watching. Unless it was John sitting him down at their flat, staring him down like a predator and telling him that he would stay here until Sherlock ate something. That didn't happen all too often – it was usually during a very long case – but it was the only exception to the I-almost-refuse-to-eat-with-someone-watching rule.

John could hear Sherlock carefully shifting the pieces of colourful cereal around on his spoon, making sure there was as little milk as possible on it. John never really understood this, but Sherlock always did it. He always made John put the milk in the cereal or he refused to eat it. Once he had his cereal all milked-up, he'd digest as little of it as possible. He didn't drink the milk at the end or anything, he just flat out refused to have his mouth full of soggy cereal and milk at the same time. It was one of Sherlock's weirder habits, John had to say.

They ate their breakfast in silence, and Sherlock ate all of his cereal. John was half astonished, half fascinated at how much Sherlock had eaten since they'd gotten to Mycroft's. Perhaps it was a big-brother's-watching thing.

When they were finished, Sherlock literally flopped onto the couch in the living room and started to watch the telly. John ignored his sulky behavior and started washing dishes. Mycroft had a dishwasher, but John rather liked doing the dishes; it was an easy accomplishment that made him feel like he'd done more than he actually had. John knew this psychology and blatantly ignored it. He liked it. End of story.

When he finished the dishes he found Sherlock's medication on the shelf where Mycroft said it would be. The syringe sat innocently next to the vial of clear medicine. John wondered for a moment how Mycroft got this without a prescription, and then remembered that the thought was ridiculous because Mycroft had most of the world working for him; of course he had access to medication. John washed his hands thoroughly before carefully extracting the medicine into the syringe.

He walked into the living room with it and one of many packets of alcohol pads on hand. "Sherlock," he said, and the consulting detective turned his attention from the television screen to the syringe in John's hand. "Medicine."

"No." Sherlock's answer was final. No, I am not taking that medicine. It surprised John a bit.

"Er, Sherlock…" John trailed off.

"I'm not, John. It's poison, I'm sure of it."

John was surprised, "Don't be silly, I've been giving this to you for weeks, and you've only been ill sometimes, not all the time."

"You have to get refills of the drug every 4 weeks," Sherlock said. "The medicine comes in 4 different vials. Naturally, it takes a week to use up one. Every time I am…ill, the occurrences are 3 to 4 weeks apart, and last a day or two over a week; the time my body takes to rid itself of the pre-used and poisoned drug. Do you understand?"

John was…shocked. It made perfect sense. He cursed himself for not realizing it his self. "Um…yeah. But Sherlock, why did it take you so long to figure that out? It was the end of summer then, and now it's November, why now?"

"I didn't have enough time to make a hypothesis yet before," Sherlock said. "Anyway, it's obvious that Moriarty is tainting the first of each new batch of drugs set, the one I take in the first of the four weeks. That's why it took so long for me to heal the first time. That's what he's done! Oh, I've done it!" Sherlock had a look of absolute glee on his face.

"Wait, Moriarty?" John asked one last question.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course it's Moriarty John, who else would come up with such a clever plan designed specifically to hurt me?"

"Good point," John said. "So…you're off these, then."

Sherlock grinned, "Yes John. Yes I am."

A/N: Ooh, the plot thickens! Okay not really. But yeah, not much happened this chapter. Except awkward John and Sherlock moments and bets. And suspected poison. Thanks to my amazing beta Just Celia . As always, please **REMEMBER TO REVIEW!^^**


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